


The Center Cannot Hold

by innerslytherin



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerslytherin/pseuds/innerslytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are only a few things Spencer has left. Morgan is not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Center Cannot Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://severity-softly.livejournal.com/profile)[**severity_softly**](http://severity-softly.livejournal.com/) for the beta! The title is from the W.B. Yeats poem "The Second Coming".

The letter has a Chicago return address. Spencer looks at it, registers Chicago, and sets it on the table. He tells himself he'll open it when he eats supper.

Only he doesn't eat supper. He falls asleep on the couch, a bottle of Crown Royal by his elbow. (_"Never ask for whiskey, Reid; if you're gonna drink, drink the good stuff."_) When he wakes up, the TV is in infomercial mode and Clooney has crawled up on the sofa with him. He thinks about pushing the dog off his chest, because he really has always hated dogs, but he can't bring himself to do it.

He lies there, staring up at the flickering blue light reflecting on the ceiling, feeling how drunk he is and how much drunker he could be, and knows that this is better than trying to sleep in an empty bed.

Hotch has told him to take as much time as he needs. It was never a secret from the team, of course. They're profilers. They understand human behavior. Morgan once said that somewhere in the bullpen there was probably a timeline of their entire relationship from the moment they met to the first spark of attraction. (_"The Christmas party where we ended up drunk and in bed together probably has a big red circle around it."_) Reid used to think that was a metaphor, but now he's decided it must exist, and that a map of New York City is folded into June of 2008.

He wakes up alone. He can hear Clooney clunking his food dish around in the kitchen, but it's several minutes before his head stops reeling when he sits up. He knows this isn't what Morgan would want, but he can't bring himself to do anything else. He staggers into the kitchen and bounces some dry kibble into Clooney's dish, and sees the letter again.

"Tomorrow," he mutters. It's the first time he's spoken in two days. His voice cracks.

 

He hasn't written to his mother in three weeks. She must know something is wrong. He doesn't expect to hear from her. She'll decide it's a government conspiracy, or maybe that her son was always just a figment of her imagination. He thinks it likely she'll be happier believing that, anyway.

He lets the answering machine screen all the calls. It's only partly because he doesn't want to talk to anyone. Mostly it's because of the outgoing message. (_"What am I supposed to say? You've reached the gay FBI agent and his hot genius lover?"_) "Hey, it's Derek. Leave a message. Oh, and there's a genius here who says he won't leave, so I guess you can talk to him, if you want." Even after a month, it makes him cry every time.

 

The postmark on the letter is two weeks old when he finally opens the envelope. He stares at the light purple paper inside, registering that this isn't some letter Derek has sent from beyond the grave. Derek wouldn't have been caught dead writing on purple paper. Desiree, he decides, and puts the envelope back on the table.

He goes into the bedroom, hating what he's about to do, but knowing he'll do it anyway. He picks a button-down shirt from the closet--the supply is dwindling; at this rate he'll only have enough button-downs for another two weeks at most--and pulls it on. Closing his eyes, he drinks in the scent of Derek Morgan, then crawls into bed, allowing the tears to come.

His cell phone rings, but he doesn't move, even when it gets dark. He was never afraid of the dark with Morgan. He knew that no matter what was concealed by the dark, he had someone at his side. Now he's terrified again, but his own future seems so dark that lying in this bed is easier than moving. What could happen to him that's worse than what has already happened?

 

John has left several messages. Spencer knows his sponsor is worried about him, but Spencer isn't yet far enough gone that he would forget the promises he made to Derek. Derek would have kicked his ass if he ever started using again. Spencer drinks, but he's on extended leave. When he goes back to work (_not 'if'...he never allows himself to think 'if'..._) he'll stop drinking. When he's ready to go back to work, he won't need to drink.

Hotch and Rossi have left messages. Everyone on the team has called except Garcia, but Prentiss and JJ don't leave messages. Garcia texted him once, the day after he stood, ramrod-straight and trembling with his entire body, next to the grave. He hadn't allowed himself to lean on anyone, because falling apart in front of them wasn't something he wanted to do. Derek had always been so poised.

He thinks Garcia probably needs him. Desiree and Sarah and Judy probably all need him. But they all need too much. They need things he doesn't have left for himself, let alone anyone else. Clooney's need is much easier. Feed him. Let him out to the backyard. Avoid his puzzled gaze when he looks for Derek and doesn't see him.

Spencer is starting to hate that dog almost as much as he loves him.

 

The postmark on the envelope is three and a half weeks old when Spencer finally reads it. Desiree's handwriting is pretty, with large looping letters and neatly-crossed Ts.

_Spencer, _

I know we had our differences, but you made Derek happy, and it made the rest of us happy to see him happy. Mom and Sarah had a lot less trouble accepting Derek being with another man than I did. But that doesn't mean I failed to see how important you were to him. You're part of our family, Spencer, and I'm not going to let you forget that.

Derek's probably told you I was always kicking his ass for things when we were kids. I'm not afraid of you, Mr. FBI, and I'm not afraid to come kick your ass if I have to. Everything pretty much sucks right now, but please don't stop living. Someday you must be happy again.

Or I'll come and kick your ass.

I know you spend a lot of vacations with your mom. But maybe you could spare a little time for us this year, too. You're all we have left of him now.

Des

 

The letter doesn't make him feel any better. It's not comforting; it's another obligation. He doesn't want any more of those. The more obligations he has, the more he has to approximate life.

He sighs and drops the purple sheet on the kitchen counter, then takes the Crown Royal out from under the sink. "If you're gonna drink," he croaks aloud, "drink the good stuff."

And he's definitely going to drink tonight.


End file.
